Erica
by PeepingSageofDarkness
Summary: Christine's daughter grows up without knowing anything of her mother's history. When she finds out the truth, nothing is the same again. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A big thank you to everyone who enjoyed my other story Jealousy. It's really nice to get positive feedback! Anyway, this is just a little story about Christine's daughter. Please review!**

**By the way, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or anything related to it, so don't sue me!**

I was ten when I first heard of the Phantom of the Opera.

It was at the country estate, a lovely place. I always felt most at home there, among the spacious gardens. There was something about all the nature, the life sprouting into bloom all around, that appealed to me. The house itself was cold and unwelcoming, each room bathed in luxurious splendor that I saw as absolutely unnecessary when there was all the splendor of nature just outside.

There was a village near the estate, separated from it by only a few miles. I visited the village many times, and I knew most of the villagers very well. Every time I ran down, there was always a friendly hello and a wave from each villager. I loved the villagers and their rough peasant ways.

One village boy was my particular friend. His name was Phillipe. He was an adventurous boy, and we had many explorations while I was at the estate. We climbed hills to see what lay on the other side, went into bat-infested caves in search of hidden treasure, and traversed all corners of the nearby wood.

He was the one who told me of the Phantom. We were in our secret hiding spot, a tree at the edge of the wood whose branches were perfectly placed for climbing and whose leaves hid any such climber. For a while we sat in companionable silence up there, gazing at the leafy canopy above our heads. Suddenly, he spoke.

"You want to hear a scary story?"

"All right, Philippe," I said, smiling. "But it had better be good. Your last one wasn't scary at all."

"It was so," he replied, indignant. "But this one's really scary. And it's true."

"You're lying," I said, hitting him on the shoulder. "Scary stories aren't true."

"This one is," he replied seriously. "My brother told me so. And he would know, since Uncle Joseph was actually there, and he's the one who told my brother."

"All right," I said. "Let's hear it, then."

"Below the Paris Opera House," he began, "deep, deep down, even below the cellars, there lived a man. This man's face was all disfigured and horrible looking. His skin was like paper, and all yellow and decayed-looking. He didn't have a nose, just a great black hole. And his eyes were bright red, and they glowed too."

He stopped speaking for a while to survey my reaction. I was horrified by the description of the face, and it must have showed in my expression because Philippe smirked at me before continuing, in the same deeply serious tone.

"Also," he continued, "the man always wore really fancy clothes, like he was going to watch the opera. He also had this mask on all the time. People saw him all the time, especially right before a performance. They called him the Opera Ghost or…"He stopped speaking and looked around as if the ghost was going to show up if his name was said. Then, he leaned close to me and whispered, "The Phantom of the Opera."

"They said," he continued, "that he always watched the performances in his special seat: Box Five. No one was allowed to sit there except him. That's what the notes he wrote to the manager always said. The manager was real scared of him. He paid the ghost money and all sorts of other things. Everyone was always scared that he would come get them, take his magical lasso and wrap it around their necks and strangle them."

I gasped at this. Philippe started a bit at the noise, as absorbed in telling the story as I was in hearing it.

"Anyway," he said, "the old manager quit. He hired two new managers, and they didn't want to take orders from the ghost. But the ghost was real insistent. You see, there was this girl, C…C…I can't remember her name, but her last name was really strange, Dye or something like that. Anyway, she was in the ballet, unimportant. Then, she sang for this gala because the soprano at the opera house walked out. She was amazing, according to my uncle. And the ghost really wanted this girl to be a star, at the expense of the old soprano. As you can imagine, she didn't like having this new girl take her spot. The managers also didn't want to take orders from a ghost, so they didn't cast the new girl."

He stopped for a minute. I waited for a minute, then exclaimed, "But what happened next?"

"My uncle, Joseph Buquet, was hanged during the opera, the one where the girl wasn't cast. The magical lasso got him." His voice trailed into nothing.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Your uncle…"

"It's all right," he said solemnly. "This all happened before I was born, so I never knew Uncle Joseph."

"Oh," I said, a little taken aback. "Well, did they ever find the ghost? I mean, he couldn't have just gotten away with killing someone!"

"Well," Philippe said, "they haven't found the ghost that I ever heard. I'm sure they tried and all, but he was too quick for them. He is a ghost after all."

"But why would he kill your uncle?" I said, still shocked.

"He spilled too many secrets," Philippe said matter-of-factly. "The ghost didn't want his life exposed to all, but my uncle loved telling the tale to everyone, to scare them a little. I guess the ghost didn't like that." He shrugged.

I sat on the branch, digesting the tale. It was a lot to think about.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

My mother was in her room when I went back to the house, staring at the wall with a far-away look on her face. She did that a lot. I always wondered what she could possibly spend so much time thinking about, but I thought it would be rude to ask.

When I walked in the room, she looked around, a wistful expression on her face. She always had a sad expression in her eyes, even if she was smiling. For some reason, it seemed especially heightened at that moment as she looked at me. Then it was back to its normal state, and she smiled and beckoned me to her.

I sat down in my little chair that she always placed by her fireplace, next to her own. Then I looked around her room, just as luxurious and extravagant as the rest of the house, but somehow subdued. There wasn't much furniture: the two chairs by the fireplace, a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table. My mother had never seemed to enjoy luxury as much as my father. His room was uncomfortably elegant, overly decorated and stuffed with the finest furniture. I always felt awkward there, as with many things related to my father.

"Mama," I said, breaking the silence that had settled between us. "Philippe told me a scary story today."

My mother smiled. She loved hearing about our adventures. "And what sort of nonsense did Philippe tell you today?"

"Oh, it wasn't nonsense today, Mama," I replied eagerly. "It was a real, true story. His uncle told his brother about it before Philippe was born. It's really real!"

"Ah," my mother said, still smiling. "And what was this tale about?"

"It was about a man who lived under the Paris Opera House," I said, the words tripping over themselves in my eagerness to tell her the story. "His face was all distorted and he always wore a mask and they called him the Opera Ghost and…Mama! It's all right!"

My mother's face was much paler than usual, dangerously pale. Worried, I touched her hand and tried to reassure her. "It's all right, Mama! I won't tell you the story if you think it's too scary!"

Gradually, the color returned to her cheeks. She still looked stricken, and the sadness in her eyes had come back in full force. There was no trace of a smile on her lips now.

"Do you think it's fair, Erica?" she murmured.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Do you think it's fair?" she repeated. "In your story, you talk of this man as if he was merely a monster." Tears appeared in her eyes as she went on, growing more and more vehement. "How do you know what he's been through? Can you imagine living like that, with a face that everyone shies away from, immediately terrified? Never judge someone by their appearance." She grew quiet then. "Never…"

I was terrified, tears of fright leaking onto my cheeks. My mother had never been so upset about anything before. As she trailed off, I saw a tear stain her cheek.

My mother was now staring into the fire, unaware of my presence. I left the room, going to the gardens. There, among the bright flowers, I cried. The shock of my mother's reaction flowed through me. Why did the story affect her so?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I haven't gotten any reviews, but I'll still update my story. I'm interested to see where it's going to go.**

A few weeks after Philippe told me of the Phantom, I heard my parents arguing. I had never heard them argue before, had never even heard them talk together for very long.

The night of their argument, I couldn't sleep. While I lay in my bed, struggling to keep my eyes closed, I heard loud voices coming from the sitting room. Curious, I crept down the hallway, crouching near the door to the room. My father was angry. I could tell from his voice.

"You can't?" he shouted. "What does that mean? Of course you can!"

"I can't, Raoul," my mother whispered, sounding close to tears. "I can't sing. There's no music left. It's gone."

"It can't be gone!" my father said desperately. "The Duke requested it! I can't ignore his request! It will ruin me!"

"I'm sorry," my mother said, her voice cracking as the tears came.

"Sorry!" my father spat in disgust. "Sorry!"

I heard a door slam and my father's footsteps recede. Then, I heard my mother's quiet sobbing. I was about to try once more to sleep when I heard her speak.

"It's gone," she sobbed. "The music…."

She kept crying as she spoke, rendering her words almost unrecognizable. I heard her say "gone" and "music" some more, as well as a strange word, possibly a name. Eric was what it sounded like. Who was Eric?

I didn't get much sleep that night.

A few days later, my father announced that we were moving to his family's house in Paris. I was horrified at this news. We were leaving the country estate, my home for so long. How could I leave the gardens, the forest, the village, Philippe?

After he told me what was going to happen, I fled to my room and cried, sobbing for all the injustice I felt, the sorrow at having to leave everything I knew and loved. How could he do this to me?

"Erica?"

My mother must have heard my sobs. I turned my face away, angry that she could let my father do this to me. She sat down near me and stroked my hair. Her kindness made me start sobbing again.

"It will be fine, Erica," she said quietly. "You might like Paris. Besides, it makes your father so happy that we're going."

It was true. I had never seen my father so excited as when he announced that we were moving. His face glowed as he described the joys of Paris, the high profile people that he was sure we would meet, the elegant parties we would be invited to. However, his happiness didn't lessen the sadness of leaving.

I faced my mother. "How can he do this to us?" I said. "I like it here. I don't want to leave!"

"Oh, Erica," my mother said sadly. "I'm sorry."

I turned away, hardly hearing her leave as I started sobbing again.

**A/N: OK, not very long, and not terribly interesting. Hopefully, the next chapter's a little better. Review please!!!**


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